A Little After Midnight
by detective-sweetheart
Summary: Maybe one night, I will wake up not to the sound of my own tears, but to the sound of a voice saying that I can go home."


It's raining again. The sky is pitch-black, or at least, what I can see of the sky is pitch-black. The rain falls in a steady torrent, relentless, and unyielding…much like I used to be. All of the lights in my small apartment are on, the warm glow causing dim shadows to show themselves on the stark white walls. I haven't bothered to paint them yet, and the shadows are somewhat of a comfort. After all, there is nothing here but silence. I sit in the kitchen, bright fluorescent lights shining down on me. The digital clock that I have on the kitchen counter displays the time as half past one in the morning, its red digits glaring at me almost angrily. I turn away and find myself staring out the window, watching the rain. My nights never used to be like this. Before I was wanted by the drug cartel, my nights were split between three different places…the Special Victims Unit squad room, the District Attorney's Office, and home. I long to return there, but I know that I can't. Home is forbidden to me, though I live a mere eleven hours away, in some small North Carolina town that I hadn't ever heard of until I came here. The name of the town is somewhat amusing; though if I hadn't ever worked with the Special Victims Unit, I doubt that I would find it so.

Manhattan is really the only place where I've ever felt comfortable working. There, I felt like I was making a difference, like my determination was one of the factors helping bring justice to those city streets. Here….here I feel like I'm falling too fast to stop myself. I feel like my eyes are permanently closed, and I am afraid to open them for fear of what I think I will see. I refused to leave the field of law when I was placed under the Witness Protection Program. Remaining an Assistant District Attorney was too risky, they told me, so that was out of the question. Now it seems as if I am split between two worlds. Here in the solitude of my quiet apartment, I remain Alexandra Cabot, but to the workforce in Raleigh, I am Meredith Freeman, and I am once more a defense attorney. I nearly objected when I was told this was what I would do for a new living, but the law is where I feel the most comfortable, and so it is the law where I will remain. Even so, I can't help but hate myself for it.

I see a lot of things nowadays, just like I used to see in Manhattan, only so much more different. I see it from the other side of the courtroom, and now I am the one trying to prove someone not guilty…I am the one hoping for an acquittal, and not a conviction. Despite this, my heart still aches for those that have been affected by the person that I am supposed to be representing. The cases hit harder than ever, especially since I have known what it is like to be the opposing counsel. I feel like I am letting down those detectives I worked alongside every time I get an acquittal for my 'client'. I wish it were different. I wish that I were still with them, fighting to keep the people's faith in the District Attorney's Office and the New York Police Department. Those days are long gone. I will most likely never be able to return to those streets of familiarity, and at the same time, the streets I walk on now will never feel like home. I have kept to myself ever since I got here, neighbors are nothing more than passing acquaintances and those I work with are the same.

The silence is deafening, but it is as if I cannot move, I seem to have become rooted to the chair upon which I sit. My eyes wander where I cannot, and as they land on a picture that hangs up on my wall, I can feel tears beginning to well up. The picture is a hazard, the agents tell me, if someone from the cartel were to ever come down here, gain my trust and see it, they would know who I was. I ignored them when they told me this. The picture is the one thing that makes me feel close to home, a sort of comfort in this chaotic mess that I call a life. The tea kettle whistles loudly on the stove, and I finally bring myself to move, pouring the steaming water into a cup, over a bag of peppermint tea. My eyes remain on the picture, and a burning sensation suddenly hits me…the water has overflowed the cup, and has begun a slow, steady stream onto the back of my hand. I abandon my tea-making efforts and I sit once more at my kitchen table, my eyes still on the picture.

The figures within the picture are familiar ones, and the first one I fully concentrate on is Detective John Munch. One might refer to him as a conspiracy theorist, which, in part, is true…he always has something for everything, no matter what it is. If there ever came a day when he was _not_ being cynical or sarcastic, I would, to say the least, be shocked. It seems as if that's all that defines him, except, of course, for the fact that he knows more than the rest of us put together. During late nights and hard cases, those comments known as 'one-liners' that came from him were, in a way, a source of comic relief…a way for us to laugh through whatever it was we were investigating (or in my case, prosecuting). It seemed to me that he always seemed to know what to say, even when the rest of us were at a loss for words…and I could only hope that my 'tragic demise' had not affected that in any way. The detectives had already lost me…I had the feeling that they would not be able to take losing that as well.

The next figure my eyes land on is the one who had come into the unit at the same time as myself, Detective Odafin Tutuola, whom the rest of us called Fin. He'd come in from Narcotics, all knowledge and intellect…at least until he started getting used to the unit and everything that came in and out of the squad room. Then he started relaxing into "gangster mode" as John put it. If anything, he was intimidating, and most were reluctant to open up and talk when it was him and John in the interrogation room. Whether or not any of us wanted to believe it, he had a soft side…it just wasn't shown very often. Maybe being intimidating was his defense mechanism, or maybe it was just the way he was. None of us knew, except for him. He wasn't telling, and we didn't ask. 'Don't ask, don't tell' seemed to be the Special Victims Unit's unofficial motto, strange as it sounds, and Fin was one of those who took it to heart.

Captain Donald Cragen was the unyielding father figure of the unit. I had, on occasion, heard the detectives refer to him as 'Dad', and quite honestly, I didn't find it strange. The unit was, and I hope, still is, closely knit…like a family. It was just the way things were. He kept a careful eye on his detectives to make sure they didn't push things too far, and he was always there when they needed someone to listen to. They talked to him more often than not, and he was always willing to give them advice. Half the time they didn't want to hear what he had to tell them, because it usually pertained to their neutrality on the case…but they always took it to heart. The detectives knew better than to ignore him, and he knew better than to create a situation in which they could not work. If one were to look at the unit, they would see seamless perfection, but that wasn't the way it went. The cases hit us, and they struck hard, fast and without warning. If it wasn't one thing, it was another…if it wasn't the media, it was pressure from the victim's family. The captain was the one who held it all together, the glue that kept the unit from separating, and all of us were grateful that he was there to keep us all from losing our sanity.

If there is anyone in all of the NYPD as watched over as Detective Olivia Benson, then I don't know who it is. She was, and still is, as far as I know, the only woman detective in the Special Victims Unit. One would think that she didn't belong there because of the nature of the crimes that go through there, but she does belong, and she always will. The unit would go to pieces if they didn't at least have her to tone the rest of them down. She is the unit's compassionate one, the one who won't back down until she's managed to find who she wants…and then, she sits in the courtroom throughout the duration of the trial, waiting for a conviction that didn't always come. Patience is a virtue, especially in a unit such as the one she works in, and unlike the rest, she had plenty of it. It was rare to see her lose her temper, but when she did, everyone else knew better than to start screwing around. The victims that came into the squad room trusted her, and she would do anything to find whoever it was that had hurt them in such an indescribable way. Many admired her for her willingness to do a job such as that, and many still do…myself included.

The cases that involve children were, and still are, the worst ones that come through the unit, especially for Detective Elliot Stabler…and the fact that he has four of his own seems to make it that much worse. One might refer to him as the unit's 'seasoned, seen-it-all veteran', but he's not, and he knows it. There are a lot of things out there that he still hasn't seen, though with the crime rate in the city, I won't be surprised if by the time I come back, he has seen it all. Partnering him with Olivia was a good decision on the captain's part…her patience and his temper make for an interesting companionship. The two of them were the last ones that I saw before I seemingly vanished into thin air. The risk of the cartel finding me if I stayed to say goodbye was great, but I had refused to leave without at least telling my two closest friends that I was still alive. If anything, I'd rather be awake and exhausted with the two of them, the captain, and Munch and Fin, than be here, awake, lonely, and unwilling to move. The sound of the rain on the windows does nothing to alleviate the emptiness that I feel inside, and staring at the picture makes it that much worse. I turn away, unable to look at myself, because so many things have changed since that picture was taken.

I wake up in the middle of the night sometimes, unable to breathe, filled with the sudden impulse to throw together an overnight bag, get into my car, and drive to New York City without stopping, but I never do. I might look different than I used to, but I still live with the fear that the cartel will recognize me. I live with the fear that the detectives might not be there when and if I return…I live with knowing that the cartel may have come after them as well, demanding to know of my whereabouts. I had no wish to place them in danger, but my stubborn nature kept me from dropping the case against the cartel when I was asked to. I asked Arthur how many more people had to die before the cartel was taken care of. He told me that too many people had already died…and now, as far as the state of New York is concerned, I am one of those people. I still wait for the call saying that I can return, and I wait for the day when I will be able to see the detectives again, to let them know that I never meant for any of this to happen…to let them know that I am still alive. Maybe one night, I will wake up not to the sound of my own tears, but to the sound of a voice saying that I can go home.

Author's notes: Like I say on everything else, LOSVU does not belong to me, nor will it ever…and Marshmellowluvr, thanks as always for editing…this would be a really big mess if it weren't for you…


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